


Meditations on Two Bastards In A Corridor

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Trigger Warning For Dead Klingons, background Garak/Bashir pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little riff of that one scene in "Way of the Warrior" where Garak and Dukat are stuck together fighting off Klingons in a hallway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed like most of my nonsense. Since I don't think we had a canon coda to the scene...everything that follows is totally made up.

"Honestly, Dukat. I told you to kill them, not toy with them!" 

Elim Garak dispassionately surveyed the Klingon that had stumble-crawled past Dukat's one-man first line. The enemy soldier was twitching energetically and little arcs of dark violet blood were spattering the hems of his pants. Oh his suit was a ruin already, at least to all appearances, but of course he knew all the tricks for getting all kinds of stains out. In several weeks he planned to have this gently spotted number (a personal favorite, which is why he wore it today, it would not do for a tailor to make a less-than-dashing corpse) fully resurrected. From then on he could enjoy the subtle pleasure of intersecting these usually very discrete parts of his life: selling sweaters, or perhaps even daringly eating lunch, in a suit that so far had seen the deaths of five and counting. 

He timed it so that just as Dukat was turning around he had a good view of Garak correcting his error. Yes he remembered just the right amount of pressure for the enemy neck not to make a loud noise (that in itself was a kind of message) and surely the other man could appreciate the graceful economy of the motion.

Dukat’s nostrils flared with annoyance. His concentration broken, he had clearly forgotten what he was about to say in return. Though to his credit he rallied quickly. 

“Feeling inconvenienced are we, _tailor_? That suit is going to be less than a rag by the time we're finished and you'll finally be suitably dressed.” 

Garak noted that he hadn’t said anything about the cut and color of the suit in question, and really he could not - they were beyond reproach. Pale-plainsgrass was the color for the month according to some old Hebetian calendar that was now used in low-brow publications for horoscopes, fortune telling, and auspicious color-combination. 

With his _tower-at-dawn_ coloring Dukat had no hope of wearing the shade himself. And really, since Garak was the one in their party sans heavy cuirass he had quite sensibly stationed himself at the rear. Even basic Central Command military strategy would support him in this decision. They must make a comical pair though, with the slighter-built Dukat leading the vanguard. More so with the way the former Prefect was almost childishly enthusiastic about hand-to-hand grappling. 

Still, they were holding up reasonably well and Garak, as usual, had found something to enjoy about the situation: Dukat-watching. Unless they were overwhelmed he could look forward to collecting and analyzing entire arrays of new information about his old enemy. 

Whatever overbreeding the former Prefect’s family line was doubtless guilty of it did leave their scion rather adaptable. Though in unsightly ways. For example, as soon as he had downed his first two Klingons he had picked up a bat'leth, of all things, and was now wielding it with abandon. Though Garak did concede the wisdom of calling on his most recent combat experience from the Klingon campaign. 

Dukat had also spent a little too long hunched over consoles and coiled into chairs - the way would shift on his legs between engagements and the way he extended himself while pressing his long-limbed reach advantage suggested a pinched nerve or two in the hip or the lower back. But the traditional sword lessons which had been popular in _those_ families in his generation had been wasted on him. He had no flow, only a kind of grim utility to his motions and used the same strategy while confounding their low-to-medium caliber foes: engage using traditional bat'leth maneuvers, ‘properly’ parry once or twice to lead them into a false rhythm, then a series of unexpected ‘dirty’ blows. Primitive, but effective.

These thoughts were interrupted as his hearing aids detected two sets of footsteps approaching. Garak shot the first one though the eye as he came around the corner and leaned forward with interest as he watched Dukat try the same trick on his battle-partner. Alas, the strategy had a clear limit. This was a seasoned individual, more scarred and older than the others, with grey streaks in a disordered pattern through his wild mane. These kinds of Klingons - those who had not gone to politics and fat in late middle age ever-so-helpfully identified themselves as requiring extra caution. This one did not seem surprised to see a Cardassian with a bat'leth and he did not fall for Dukat's low slash to the thigh. For a moment his eyes cut over Dukat's shoulder to where Garak was standing and a certain ugly light came into his expression. Flashing his fangs in a rictus of battle-joy he began to press Dukat back, to parry his blows, to scrape ugly-sounding scratches into his cuirass. 

Garak frowned. 

_He knows he is going to die, he's seen me. So he's tiring out the front-line. Clever thing. Then the next wave is going to be four men at least._

_I suppose I should do something before he wounds him too badly._

During an impassioned pass Garak shot the old soldier in the knee and Dukat's bat'leth caught the edge of his throat before clanging into the wall. To his disgust Dukat didn’t seem to notice the timely intervention and busied himself panting triumphantly over the fallen Klingon. At least building up an enemy’s false confidence was never wasted. Perhaps Dukat would assume his own skill alone carried the day and try the same maneuver in the future. And get skewered. One could hope.

Garak shot the old Klingon again, though the heart, when he noticed he was still moving and even edging towards Dukat’s back leg. With the frequency of use his disruptor pistol’s beam had grown thin and reedy and it took him two blasts to end the man decisively. 

That, Dukat noticed.

"Well well, it's you up here with me now.” he grinned nastily and then, plucking the dead Klingon's bat'leth out of his hand offered it to Garak.

"How kind of you. Though, for the moment, I must decline" 

He fished a replacement battery pack out of his sleeve and twisted the release catch on the disruptor open with a nail, sliding the new pack in and kicking the empty blank behind him with an easy gesture. The set of Dukat's mouth turned sour and he let the other bat'leth drop to the floor.

"How many of those do you have?” Now he was eyeing Garak's middle suspiciously: was that supply-weight, an armored vest, or ammunition? Let him wonder.

"Oh, at least three." Garak replied, smiling.

He had many more than three.

\- - -


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey I was right, there was a little more to the story...Some Garak/Bashir and speculative Cardassian biology snuck in there also.

Eventually Dukat did grow tired and they had to change formation to shoulder-to-shoulder. _A tremendous energy in him, really,_ Garak thought. _No wonder he can't keep weight on and deliberately avoids being seen without his armor._ Now they both had pistols out and a neat little pile of interwoven and stunned Klingon corpses to duck behind. Unfortunately, though the dead no longer leaked, they still smelled. 

It was easier to dispatch the wounded ones that made it as far as their barricade as a pair. Dukat had even managed to clumsily mimic his technique for breaking necks - no one taught him anything as useful as that in all his finishing lessons! However the remaining Klingons assaulting their position seemed to sense that the balance of the siege was shifting away from them and instead of retreating like civilized people were prepared to enter their questionable Paradise biting, scratching, and struggling to the last. 

Drops of his own blood were starting to add to the decoration of his suit. Now he would have to soak it in two separate solutions and the prospect annoyed him. 

"Would you endeavor to be less decorative and aim for the chest if you can't manage the head?" he snapped at the man beside him. “I realize that may be detrimental to your future looting efforts, but we must all make sacrifices for the cause!" 

As if he hadn’t noticed Dukat picking Orders of the Bat'leth and other medals off the bodies in the lulls. _What does he even want them for? Does he have a drawer full of the things? Does part of Damar’s duty include sorting through his superior’s inappropriate trophy collection?_ Greed - petty, unending greed for markers and bed-notches and monuments formed a crucial part of Dukat’s character. Which implied an interesting sort of _lack_ underneath it all.

Just then Dukat didn’t have the breath to reply and only glared and blew strands of his crest out of his mouth in frustrated dishevelment. Candidly, he himself was faring no better with regards to untidiness. For a few minutes they were both shivering in the recycled air like a pair of old gravediggers, massaging cramped phaser-hands and shuffling from side to side to maintain mobility in the legs. A few more waves and temporary retreat might become a prudent option.

The enemy didn’t give them long.

“Three more are coming. Be useful, aim lower." he hissed in warning, and it began again.

When the last of this set had fallen Dukat, already irritable after a graze had split the scales at the back of his hand, somehow found the energy indulge in what could only be called a temper tantrum. Swearing under his breath he viciously kicked at the corpse that had fallen across his boots and continued kicking it until it had rolled a fair distance from their position. Garak took the time to swap out another battery pack and couldn’t quite keep from rolling his eyes.

Honestly, did he think he would just waltz in, fire off a few well placed shots and accept the Council’s undying gratitude? People like him always forgot how long the real work took.

Dukat seemed to sense his eyes on the back of his neck and turned around. A well-known voice in Garak’s mind whispered that he was conveniently downrange. The knowledge flashed across both their faces. 

“You’d like to kill me now, wouldn’t you.” 

Garak almost shrugged in answer. It was enough that they both knew, Dukat hardly needed to point it out so obviously. Even the way he had said it, with his arms spread wide, was shabbily over-dramatic. As if he was practicing for a play. 

“It’s something isn’t it, me sinking down to your level... and of course for the good of Cardassia I’m willing to do it! After all, my men, my post, and my family are waiting for me.”

_And as far as I know, not a one of them willingly._

“But tell me Garak, do you think the members of the Council will appreciate your efforts? Do you think they’ll even know you worked to rescue them? So why are you here? What are you getting out of this if not a chance to take a shot at your rival?”

They were rivals in Dukat’s mismanaged mind weren’t they. Never mind that it was both unseemly and impossible. In the social strata Dukat still had the good fortune to occupy, in every social strata, Garak had ceased to exist. And yet Dukat always went out of his way to acknowledge him. Though he never passed over a chance to sneer and call him ‘ _tailor_ ’ he acted as if Garak still had enough status to make him a worthwhile target of public enmity. Almost as if Garak had equivalent status.

_Had he lasted in the vanguard for so long because he was showing off for me? What an amusing idea!_

_And what a pitiable day I am having, surrounded by dead Klingons and getting social-validation from Skrain Dukat._ Who, in all tediousness, was still talking. 

“-but you’ve always been too cautious, that is the difference between us! You’re only a tool and without superior direction you are reluctant to seize the opportunity. And now your masters have forgotten you and all you have left is your little shop. What have your decades of service as the Order’s knife ever won you? I hear they don’t even allow shadow-creatures like you to have children.”

Garak pressed his lips together. Cheap, even for him. And the whole little speech was too defensive by half. As if riling him up would distract him from the fact that Dukat really ought to die eventually, maybe even soon. But unfortunately not here and not yet. Too many other things were still in flux. 

Besides, someone had obviously neglected to study his history. Generations ago before overpopulation had given them all the recruits they required, a man of Garak’s caliber and proficiency would have had a duty to contribute to the Order strains. He would have had offspring enough to rival Dukat's own, _and_ his seven legitimate children. Though that was more of a process akin to giving out cuttings of an especially fruitful tree than true twinning. Then again, had Dukat given his own marital duties any more emotional forethought?

Now was no longer serving in his old capacity(with every day that passed it seemed more likely that he never would do so again) so technically a thread of possibility remained. It would be a decade or so before he was too aged to bear, decades more until too aged to sire. Perhaps, if he could manage to return, if his biology hadn’t suffered too much for being frozen here in space for nine long years...

Lately a traitorous thread of his thoughts was ever more concerned with what his own _shale-by-the-sea_ tone would look like melded with a certain golden brown. A ridiculous notion! Frankly a trifle heretical! And on another level he knew it was a sound choice, perhaps the only choice. In his own way he was as overbred as Dukat. They were all too much alike sometimes: he and his mother and his Father, in their pragmatic ruthlessness, their inert fatalism.

His bloodline needed an infusion of light, of a different kind of steel. In the future Cardassia would need all kinds of People... 

"Well? Nothing to say to tha-" 

Daydreaming, Garak had almost forgotten the other man was there. 

Abruptly, above their heads the claxons sounded the all clear. Dukat looked up and away mid-sentence and, taking the opportunity, Garak shot him neatly in the back of the thigh. It might be of interest to Starfleet Intelligence to know that even Order-made phasers had a ‘stun’ setting. 

Dukat fell like a sack of lennet. His fixed, open eyes and gaping, wonderfully immobile mouth made quite a picture against the grating of the floor. Garak stood over him with an expression that was almost kindly and then prodded him with the stained tip of his shoe, pushing his self-declared nemesis’ twisted back into a slightly more painful configuration. 

He was tempted to scold himself, that had been done on a whim. He hadn’t planned on non-lethally shooting Dukat today and a man in his line of work really shouldn’t get too whimsical. But what was done was done, and why not? Why not let Dukat think he had managed to goad him into action? It would throw him off the scent. No need to let him suspect that Garak already had some tentative plans towards securing his legacy. 

Surveying the mess he allowed himself a small satisfied nod and a chance to wipe his hands and face with a limp Klingon commandant’s trailing surcoat. Everything had been managed as well as could be expected. He had gotten his good use out of Dukat and half an hour or so spent horizontal would hardly kill the man - none of his wounds were even bleeding anymore. Of course a mouthful of Klingon death-stink might not make for the most pleasant awakening. 

Though he was still sipping air in strained draughts his body felt lighter. With a touch of his humble help the battle had been won. The station: his territory and his prison was free to spin on its axis for another day. There would be a celebration tonight, which he would not be altogether welcome at, true, but first there would be extra shifts in the Infirmary to patch up all the survivors. A certain lovely, dedicated Lieutenant could be trusted to work late. 

On aching feet and newly possessed of a few bothersome, stinging cuts he nevertheless found himself smiling as his footsteps carried him down the corridor, towards the maintenance passages that led back to his quarters. He was going to see the Doctor soon and first he really ought to change. 

~


End file.
